The landscape around is now sprinkled with flowers, The mountains are blue in their distant array; The wreaths of green leaves are refreshed with the showers, Like a moth in the sunshine the lark flies away.

How joyous the reapers their harvest songs singing As they see the maid bring the flagon and horn; And the G.o.ddess of plenty benedictions is flinging Over meadows and pastures and barley and corn.

'Tis sweet on the hills with the morning sun shining, To watch the rich vale as it brightens below; 'Tis sweet in the valley when day is declining, To mark the fair mountains, deep tinged with its glow.

Now is the time when biting old Boreas, True to his calling, the tempests impend; His hailstones in fury are pelting before us, Our fingers are smarting, and heads they are bent.

The cold winds do murmur, the bleak snow is falling, The beasts of the forest from hunger do call; There are desolate evenings, comfortless mornings, And gloomy noontides for one and for all.

Drear is thine aspect, tyrannical December, O hast thou no mercy for the pitiless poor; Christmas is thine, and well we remember, Though dark is thy visage, we honour thee more.

Bonnie Cliffe Castle.

Oh, bonnie Cliffe Castle! what sight can be grander?

Thou picture of beauty and joy to the eye, So n.o.ble and grand in thy beauty and splendour That envy must tremble as she pa.s.seth by.

And long may'st thou flourish and bloom like the heather, An honour to him who's thy founder so great, And stand like an oak in both fair and foul weather, Till old Father Time hath forgotten thy date.

'Tis a pleasure to view thee from hill-top or level, From moorland, from meadow, or mountain afar, Where Roman pack-hors.e.m.e.n more safely could travel, In days when the Briton and Boman waged war.

In those days of yore, from Hawkcliffe to Rivoc, The wolf and the wild boar sought after their prey, But Briton's brave sons amongst them made havoc, And thus for Cliffe Castle they opened the way.

Where erst were wild woods, crags, moorlands, and marshes, In days long gone by and whose dates are unknown, Is now the highway where stand thy proud arches, Oh, bonnie Cliffe Castle! thou pride of the town.

'Tis true that thy walls were not built for defence, Nor that thy equipments befit thee for war; A castle of love is thy only pretence, A name that is higher and n.o.bler by far.

Thou 'mind'st me of five as kind-hearted brothers, As ever set sail on the deep ocean's breast, Whose lives have been spent in love toward others, And while blessing others themselves have been blest.

Like heroes of old, on horse or on vessel, On land or on water they fought and they won, And now thy grand towers, O bonnie Cliffe Castle!

Tower up to the heavens, which answer, "Well done!"

Opening of Devonshire Park, SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1888.

Oh, well do we remember- For the news it was so pleasant- When His Grace the Duke of Devonshire Made our famous town a present Of a pretty little garden- An Arcadia in its way- And how the bells rang merrily On that eventful day.

Oh, this lovely little garden 'Twill be to us a pleasure, It will delight the great elite- To them 'twill be a treasure.

And who are they who dare to say The town it did not need one- A pretty little lovely spot And a happy little Eden.

In this pretty little Paradise Of beauty and of splendour- Search our land from end to end, You could not find a grander; The turtledove can make its love, Not caring for the pigeon, If he belongs his politics And follows his religion.

In this pretty little garden, When the bloom is on the heather, Two minds with but one single thought Can tell their tales together; The maiden from the mansion, And the lady from the villa, Can wander there and shed a tear Beneath the weeping willow.

This bonny little garden Is fine for perambulators, Where our handsome servant-la.s.ses Can wheel our lovely creatures, And oh! how happy they will be!

As time they are beguiling, When the mammy and the daddy Are upon the babies smiling.

Oh! this pretty little garden, Which every one admires, Which pleased His Grace the n.o.ble Duke To give our little squires.

The news was something wonderful, Like the shooting of a rocket, When they heard that they had got a Park, And were "nothing out o'pocket."

In this pretty little garden, With all its blossom blooming We can sit and sing the whole day long, From the morning till the gloaming; And tell Dame Keighley's blunders, When her sons were naught but a.s.ses; And could not even raise a Park, To please the upper cla.s.ses.

Then let us give the n.o.ble Duke, The praises of the Borough- For if we did not thank His Grace, We should commit an error- And not forgetting Mr. Leach, For he deserves rewarding, For it is known he got the town This pretty little garden.

[Picture: Picture of a rose]

Farewell to the REV. H. J. LONGSDON, Formerly Rector of Keighley.

Farewell dear friend, nor take it hard, To leave the town where thou hast been, Where many a joy we hope thou'st had, Though witness'd many a sorry scene.

Thy works were good, we know it well, We watched thee in thy weary toil; Where oft obstruction, shame to tell, Waits on the good their plans to spoil.

Yet thou dids't toil without a fear From day to day, from year to year; Beloved by all, thy foes are few, And they are loth to bid adieu.

We saw thee in the early dawn Up with the lark at break of morn, Thy duties promptly to attend, Our shepherd, pastor, and our friend.

With good advice to one and all, The old, the young, the great, the small; In lane or house, in church or street, Thy presence we were glad to meet.

"Thou art a man! a man! a man!"

The Poet quotes from some old play; "An upright, honest gentleman, Whose likes we meet not every day."

And when thou leavest us behind, Our recollections will not die- Of thee whose meekness, zeal, and love, Are known alike to low and high.

Out from thy fold, all other flocks Were proud of thee-a shepherd true, All other shepherds greeted thee, Although thy flocks to theirs were few.

Thou tended with a shepherd's care, And saw that none did go astray; Thou led them with an honest will, From early morn to evening's ray.

Adieu, dear sir, long may'st thou live To be a credit to our isle; And when thou toil'st 'midst other friends, May fortune on thy labours smile.

[Picture: Decorative picture of a plant]

He's Thy Brother.

Turn from the rich thy steps awhile, And visit this poor domicile; Abode of flavours rank and vile?

This is the home, and this the style, Where lives thy brother!

The cobwebs are his chandeliers; Bricks and dank straw his bed and chairs; He has no carpet on the stairs, But, like the wild beasts to their lairs, Crawls in thy brother.

He once did stride his father's knee- A little horseman bold and free; And, should thou trace this pedigree, Thy mother's darling pet was he- Thy little brother.